CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
([\Aonographs) 


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Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographles) 


lii 


Canadian  Inathuta  lor  Historical  Mlerarapfoductioni  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  l«i(toriqiiaa 


1995 


Taehnical  and  BiMioinphie  Notn  /  Nam  tMiiniqiHi  tt  biMiographiqiHs 


TiM  Imtitutt  hn  ■tnmpnd  to  obtain  the  Imt  origiiMl 
copy  milablt  for  tilmint.  Futuras  of  this  copy  whidi 
may  ba  biWio«npliically  uniqua.  wliidi  may  ahaf  any 
of  iha  imaiai  in  tlia  raproduetion,  or  which  may 
ii«nif  ieantly  chan«a  tha  unial  mathod  of  tllniinf,  afe 
chackad  balow. 


L'Inttitut  a  micnfilm*  la  maillaur  axamplaira  qu'il 
luiaMpooibladawpracurar.  La<  dtoilt  da  eat 
axamplaira  qui  torn  paiit-«tn  uniquat  du  point  da  ra 
,  qui  paunnt  modif  iar  una  imafa 
.  ou  qui  pauvant  axigar  una  modif  ication 
dam  la  mMioda  normala  da  f ilmafa  torn  indiquti 


0Colourad  conn/ 
Couinrtura  da  coulaur 


I  Couvartura  andommafia 

Covart  rattorad  and/or  laminalad/ 
Couvartura  rastauria  at/ou  pallicuWa 


□  Covar  titia  mining/ 
La  titra  da  couyartura  manqua 


□  Cotnn  damafad/ 
< 

D 

n 
n 


0 
n 
n 
n 


Cartaa  gioaraphiquai  an  eoulaur 

Coloufad  ink  (i.a.  other  than  Mua  or  Mack)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  Maua  ou  noiral 

Colouiad  platas  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planchas  at/ou  illustrations  an  coulaur 


D 


Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
Ralii  avac  d'autras  documents 

Tii^t  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 
La  reliura  serria  peut  causer  da  romhre  ou  de  la 
distortion  la  long  da  la  merge  intiriaura 

Blank  leans  added  during  restoration  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenenr  possible,  these  ham 
been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  te  peut  que  eertaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  appareissent  dens  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsqua  cele  itait  possible,  ces  peges  n'ont 
pes  M  fitm^es. 


Colourad  pages/ 


□  Pages  restored  end/or  leminatad/ 
Pages  restaw*es  et/ou  pellkailtas 

0  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pagn  dfeolor«es,  tachaiies  ou  piquias 

□  Pages  detached/ 
Paget  dtoehies 

HShowthrr/ugh/ 
Transpi  ranee 

□  Ouelity  of  print  veries/ 
Oualita  in«gala  de  Timpression 

□  Continuous  pegination/ 
Paginetion  continue 

□  Includes  indexlesi/ 
Comprend  un  (des)  index 

Title  on  heeder  teken  from:/ 
Le  titra  de  I'en-ttte  pro>iant: 


iuue/ 

de  la  livraison 


□  Title  page  of 
Page  de  litre 

□  Ception  of  issue/ 
Titra  de  dipert  de  le  liweison 

□  Mesthaad/ 


0  Additional  comments;/ 
Commenteires  supplimentaires: 


i  Ginirique  (piriodiquesi  de  la  llvreiton 
Part  of  oewr  titio  hidden  by  lebal. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ci  document  est  filmt  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 


itx 


12X 


Itx 


m 

20X 


SX 


28X 


Th*  copy  fllmad  h*r«  hu  baan  raproduead  thanks 
to  tha  eono'oaitv  of: 

National  Library  of  Cfinada 


L'axamplaira  film*  fut  raproduit  grtea  A  la 
g«n«rosit*  da: 

Blbliotheque  natlonala  du  Canada 


Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  boat  qualitv 
poasibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibilitv 
of  ttia  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apoeificationa. 


Las  images  suivantas  ont  M  raproduiias  avac  la 
plua  grand  soin.  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  si 
da  la  nattat*  da  I'aiiamplaira  film*,  at  *n 
eonformit*  avac  laa  conditions  du  contrst  da 
fllmaga. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  fllmad 
beginning  with  tha  front  covor  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  psga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  Impraa- 
sion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  approprlata.  All 
otfiar  original  copiaa  ara  fllmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  Illuatratad  impraa- 
sion.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illustratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  aiamplairaa  orlginaus  dont  la  eouvartura  an 
papiar  aat  Imprim4a  sont  filmte  an  commancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'lllustration.  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  eas.  Toua  las  sutras  axamplairas 
orlginauii  sont  filmte  an  commandant  par  la 
pramitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraasion  ou  d'lllustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microflcha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  »^  Imaaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  y  Imaaning  "END"), 
whiehavar  applias. 


Un  daa  symbola*  suivanM  spparaitra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microflcha.  sslon  Is 
caa:  la  symbola  ^»  signlfia  "A  SUIVRE '.  la 
symbola  ▼  signlfia  "FIN". 


Maps,  plataa.  charts,  ate.,  may  ba  fllmad  at 
diffarant  raductlon  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraiy  included  in  ona  aspoaura  ara  fllmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  eornsr,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom.  as  many  framaa  as 
raqulrad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illuatrata  tha 
method: 


Lea  eartea,  planches,  ubieaux.  etc..  pauvent  itra 
filmaa  i  daa  taui  da  raduction  diffarants. 
Lorsque  le  document  eat  trap  grand  pour  ttra 
raproduit  en  un  soul  clich*.  11  est  filma  t  partir 
da  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite. 
et  da  haut  an  baa.  an  prenant  la  nombre 
d'imagea  nAcassaire.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
llluatrant  la  mothode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MKtOCOrr  IBOIUTION  TiST  CHAIT 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1^ 

12.2 


|Z0 


^^ll^ 


A  /APPLIED  IM/GE    Inc 

^^  1653  Eoit   Main  StrMt 

r.a  Rochester,   New  York         U609       USA 

i^  CIS)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (716)  288- 5989 -Fq« 


fdlDi^ 


J^aSJyl^/b, 


/5^5 


* 

OTHER  BOOKS  BY  DR.  EATON 


Acadian  Legends  and  Lyrics 

The  Heart  of  the  Creeds,  Historical 

Religion  in  the  Light  of  Modern 

Thought 
The   Church   of   England  in  Nova 

Scotia  and  the  Tory  Clergy  of 

the   Revolution 
Tales  of  a  Garrison  Town  (with  C.  L. 

Betts) 
Acadian  Ballads  and  De  Soto's  Last 

Dream 
Poems  of  the  Christian  Year 
Poems  in  Notable  Anthologies 
Recollections  of  a  Georgia  Loyalist, 

Edited  and  Introduced 
Educational    Works     Compiled    and 

Edited 
Family  Historical  Monographs 


THE  LOTUS  OF  THE  NILE 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


THE   LOTUS 
OF  THE  NILE 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

ARTHUR  WENTWORTH 
EATON 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  WHITTAKER 
MCM  VII 


70300 


Copyiight,  I90« 

Bj  Anm  WimwoiTa  Hahhton  Eaton 

jUI  Rigbit  RmmeJ 

Published  January,  1907 


J 


TO 

MY  SISTER  ANNA 

I  DEDICATE  THESE  POEMS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Lotus  or  the  Nile ,3 

Fountains  Abbey ,  ■ 

By  THE  Bridge 20 

The  Prophecy  of  Beauty 23 

The  Garden  of  Song j* 

The  Roots  of  the  Roses 27 

The  Voyage  of  Sleep 28 

Autumn  Pomps 20 

Lombardy  Poplars 22 

Once  Again  the  Summer  Dies 35 

The  Whaung  Town 37 

The  East  and  the  West  (to  d.  r.  h.)  ...  39 

Thou  Art  My  Guiding  Star 4, 

'Twere  Better  to  Love 43 

The  Poet's  Brain ^ 

The  Pipes  of  Pan ., 

9 


I  Watch  the  Ships 46 

Foundry  Fires 49 

The  Street  Organ 51 

Flood-Tide 53 

The  Virgin's  Shrine 55 

An  Orient  Prayer 56 

Answer  of  a  Despondent  Soul 59 

It  Matters  Much 62 

Not  in  Vain. 64 

Compelling  Thoughts 65 

If  I  Could  Have  It  Back 66 

Pearls  that  Are  Rarest 68 

Love  Letters 70 

The  Hearth  IsCold 71 

The  Mystery J2 

The  Meadow  Lands 73 

Small  and  Great 74 

I  Plucked  a  Daisy 75 

Peasant  and  King 77 

Arthurian  Days 79 

A  Fire  of  Straw 81 


10 


The  Pokt  PAsaso  My  Way 82 

Thb  Pokt"*  Would 83 

The  Awakening 8^ 

Deepening  the  Channel <5 

Chance  Meetings 86 

The  Painter's  Grief 88 

Where  Are  Ye  Now? 90 

The  Still  Hour gj 

At  Grandmother's 94 

The  Old  Church  and  the  New 97 

"Day  of  the  Triumphant  Sun" 100 

The  Ancient  Gods  Are  Dead 103 

Toward  the  West 105 

The  Angel  Sleep 107 

When  Night  Shuts  In  : 109 


Iffl 


THE  LOTUS  OF  THE  NILE 

pROUD,  languid  lily  of  the  sacred  Nile, 
■*■       Tis  strange  to  see  thee  on  our  western  wave, 
Far  from  those  sandy  shores  that  mile  on  mile, 
Papyrus-plumed,  stretch  silent  as  the  grave. 

O'er  limpid  pool,  and  wide,  palm-sheltered  bay. 
And    round     deep-dreaming    isles,    thy    leaves 
expand, 

Where  Alexandrian  barges  plough  their  way. 
Full-freighted,  to  the  ancient  Theban  land. 

On  Kamak's  lofty  columns  thou  wert  seen. 
And  spacious  Luxor's  temple-palace  walls. 

Each  royal  Pharaoh's  emeralded  queen 
Chose  thee  to  deck  her  glittering  banquet  halls; 


Yet  thou  art  blossoming  on  this  fairy  lake 
As  regally,  amidst  these  common  things, 

13 


THE  LOTUS  OF  THE  NILE 

As  on  the  shores  where  Nile's  brown  ripples  break, 
As  in  the  ivory  halls  of  Egypt's  kings. 

Thy  grace  meets  every  passer's  curious  eyes, 
But  he  whose  thought  has  ranged  through  faiths 
of  old 
Gazing  at  thee  feels  lofty  temples  rise 
About  him,  sees  long  lines  of  priests,  white- 
stoled. 

That  chant  strange  music  as  they  slowly  pace 
Dim-columned  aisles;  hears  trembling  overhead 

Echoes  that  lose  themselves  in  that  vast  space. 
Of  Egypt's  solemn  ritual  for  the  dead. 

Ay,  deeper  thoughts  than  these,  though  undefined. 
Start  in  the  reflective  soul  at  sight  of  thee. 

For  this  majestic  orient  faith  enshrined 
Man's  yearning  hope  of  immortality, 

And  thou  didst  symbolize  the  deathless  power 
That  under  all  decaying  forms  lies  hid. 

The  old  world  worshipped  thee,  O  Lotus  flower. 
Then  carved  its  sphinx  and  reared  its  pyramid! 


'4 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY 

I  NEVER  caught  so  clear  the  master  note 
From  old  monastic  centuries,  days  remote 
In  thought  and  speech,  most  in  religious  mood, 
As  when  a  lonely  traveller  I  stood 
Amidst  the  ruins  England  loves  so  well, 
Her  Fountains  Abbey  in  the  Vale  of  Skell. 

Fresh  lawns  and  spangled  meadows  far  and  near 
Laughed  at  the  menace  of  the  waning ;  sar, 
But  like  some  furrowed  rock  high  up  the  shore, 
That  ne'er  again  shall  list  the  plash  of  oar 
Nor  feel  the  tides,  estranged  from  wold  and  wood 
These  wasted  walls  and  crumbling  cloisters  stood. 

Univied  pillars,  pensive,  proud,  aloof. 
That  long  withstood  the  weight  of  Norman  ro"f ; 
And  arch  decayed,  and  base  of  buoyant  tower 
Disdained  the  threats  of  time,  despised  its  power, 
And  seemed  like  ancient  men  who  magnify 
The  statelier  manners  of  an  age  gone  by. 


>S 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY 

By  broken  buttressed  walls  I  still  could  trace 
The  Abbey's  wide  expanse,  in  thought  could  place 
On  this  side  and  on  that  the  narrow  skell, 
Nave,  choir,  dim   chapter  house,  low  crypt,  and 

cell,- 
A  noble  harmony  of  chiselled  stone, 
A  gothic  forest  in  this  valley  grown. 

It  was  not  strange  I  felt  once  more  the  thrill 
Of  the  old  life,  for  every  place  at  will 
Brings  back  its  myriad  dead,  not  ghosts  but  men. 
Who  take  the  old  tasks  up,  and  walk  again 
The  common  ways;  alive  grew  plain  and  wood 
With  the  white-robed  Cistercian  brotherhood. 

Some  tilled  the  fields,  some  from  the  forest  came 
Laden  with  fresh-cut  fuel  or  with  game; 
Some  tended  glowing  ovens,  deep  and  wide. 
Or  turned  the  heavy  spit  from  side  to  side. 
Some  thoughtful,  with  the  air  of  courtly  men. 
Cowls  back,  sat  silent,  wielding  brush  or  pen. 


In  holy  sanctuary,  where  the  east 
Poured  purple  splendours  through  the  church,  a 
priest 

i6 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY 

With  broidered  robes  at  the  high  altar  sung 
A  sacred  mass,  whose  echoes  faintly  rung 
Into  the  raftered  gloom,  and  lingered  there 
Like  Skell's  own  murmurs  on  the  evening  air. 

On  traceried  v-ndows,  rich  with  red  and  gold, 

Time-honourea  legends  of  the  Church  were  told; 

Martyrs  and  saints,  released  from  want  and  fear, 

Had  reached  an  aureoled  existence  here; 

In  haloed  splendour,  over  all  was  he 

Of  Bethlehem's  manger  and  Gethsemane. 

I  saw  the  abbot,  cloistered  potentate. 
Come  riding  proudly  through  the  open  gate. 
While  as  he  rode  a  lithe-limbed  novice  bore 
With  lifted  hands  a  silver  cross  before. 
And  every  hooded  brother,  low  or  high. 
Took  reverent  posture  as  his  lord  went  by. 

I  saw  the  wearied  traveller  alight 
Before  the  abbey  walls  at  dead  of  night, 
Too  tired  to  take  the  bridle  from  his  steed 
Or  tell  the  kindly  hostler-monk  his  need. 
To  claim  the  bounty  here  as  freely  given 
As  Israel's  manna,  or  the  dew  of  heaven. 


17 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY 

The  castellated  feudal  towers  that  frowned 
Their  moated  terrors  on  the  country  round, 
And  o'er  the  serf-tilled  soil  with  verdure  drest 
Held  despot  sway  from  glittering  east  to  west, 
From  neighbouring  woods  looked  on,  half-shamed 

to  see 
Such  peace,  such  liberal  hospitality. 

O  golden  days,  I  said,  when  rich  and  poor. 
Knights  riding  home  across  the  dangerous  moor, 
The  lowliest  swain  that  delved  in  field  or  fen. 
Princes  and  cassocked  priests  and  serving  men. 
Were  ever  welcome  to  an  abbey's  fires. 
Its  ripening  fruits,  the  fat  kine  in  its  byres. 

O  wondrous  age,  when  poets  sang  their  songs 
In  these  cool  cells,  unhindered  by  the  throngs 
That  love  not  melody;  when  Science  knew 
A  place  where,  welcome,  she  might  search  the  blue. 
Still  dome  of  heaven,  or  unsuspected  pry 
Amidst  the  rocks,  her  field  the  earth  and  sky. 


O  happy  men,  whom  cruel,  cureless  hate. 
Love  unrequited,  festering  sores  of  state. 
The  din  of  clashing  creeds,  domestic  strife, 

i8  . 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY 

The  lusts  and  lies  that  sicken  us  of  life, 
Drove  here  for  shelter:  discords  as  of  hell 
Were  hushed  within  your  souls  beside  the  Skell. 

Long-ruined  abbey,  all  the  hope  and  fear 

Of  ghostly  centuries  are  gathered  here, 

1  iie  sense  of  brotherhood,  the  lust  and  greed. 

The  noblest  triumph  and  the  darkest  deed; 

The  world's  heart  beats  in  these  fair  violet  blooms 

That  fringe  your  nameless  monks' forgotten  tombs. 


•9 


BY  THE  BRIDGE 

■flT'ITH  subtlest  mimicry  of  wave  and  tide, 

Of  oiean  storm,  and  current  setting  free. 
Here  by  the  bridge  the  river  deep  and  wide, 
Swaying  the  reeds  along  its  muddy  marge 
Speeds  to  the  wharf  the  dusky  coaling-barge, 
And  dreams  itself  a  commerce-quickening  sea. 

Wide  sedge-rimmed  meadows  westward  meet  the 

eye. 
Brown,  silty,  sere,  where  driftwood  from  the  mills 
Is  thrown,  as  Spring's  full  flood  sweeps  by. 
And  weeds  grow  rank  as  on  the  wild  salt-marsh, 
And  lonely  cries  of  sea-gulls,  loud  and  harsh. 
Pierce  evening's  silence  to  the  echoing  hills. 

The  scene,  with  all  its  varied,  voiceless  moods, 
My  eyes  have  looked  upon  so  many  years 
That  like  my  mother's  songs,  or  the  deep  woods 


10 


BY  THE  BRIDGE 

In  whose  mysterious  shade  I  used  to  play, 
Weaving  sweet  fancies  all  the  summer  day, 
It  has  strange  power  to  waken  joy  or  tears. 

I  love  the  lights  that  fringe  the  farther  shore. 
Great  golden  fireflies  by  a  silver  mere; 
Mysterious  torches  they,  that  o'er  and  o'er 
Recall  to  mind  the  dear  souls  gone,  not  set 
Cold-gleaming  crystals  in  God's  coronet, 
But  gems  that  light  our  way  with  ruddy  cheer. 

Sometimes  inverted  in  the  wave  they  seem 

Like  orient  palace-roofs  and  towers  aflame 

With  rubies,  or  those  sapphire  walls  that  g'eam 

Amidst  the  visions  of  the  holy  Seer, 

Who  by  the  blue  Egean,  with  vision  clear, 

Saw  splendours  in  the  heavens  he  might  not  name. 

When  all  the  river  lies  encloaked  in  mist 
So  far  away  those  trembling  orbs  of  hght 
They  symbol  memories  fair  that  still  persist. 
With  glow  or  glimmer,  of  the  shrouded  years 
Before  we  left,  for  laughter,  cries,  and  tears. 
That  world  serene  where  souls  are  born  in  light. 

I  cannot  watch  unmoved  the  sunset  here. 
When  swift  volcanic  fires  of  liquid  gold 


21 


BY  THE  BRIDGE 
Alight  on  hills  of  purple  haze  appear 
And  clouds,  deeps:rimsoned  in  the  d'zy's  decline. 
L,ke  snowy  festal-garments  splashed  with  wine. 
Lie  careless,  resting  fleecy  fold  on  fold. 

So  deep  the  meanings  in  these  changing  mood. 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  that  I  who  reverent  stand 
Before  a  flower,  and  in  the  sombre  woods 
Hear  speech  that  silences  the  common  creeds. 
Mand  lost  in  wonder,  like  a  man  who  reads 
Immortal  prophecies  none  can  understand. 


22 


J 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  BEAUTY 

QOMETIMES  I  think  the  source  of  soul, 
^-'        must  be 

The  Primal  Beauty,  we  so  quick  respond 
To  loveliness  in  earth  and  sky  and  sea— 

Green  in  the  majestic  oak  and  fine  fern-frond. 

Purple  in  sunsets,  undulate  lines  of  hills. 
Ships   spreading  white  wings  on   the  western 
wave, 

White-foaming  currents  turning  mossy  mills. 
The  dim  cathedral's  arch  and  spire  and  nave; 

The  moon's  reflection  on  the  limpid  lake, 
The  plash  of  oars,  the  rowers'  voices  there; 

The  enrapturing  scent  that  follows  in  the  wake 
Of  Spring's  first  mov-ment  in  the  forests  bare. 

Who  has  not  often  felt  a  sovereign  power 
To  lift  his  spirit  to  m.;iestic  pose 

23 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  BEAUTY 

In  the.e,  or  mountain  peak,  or  vine-clad  bower; 
In  violet  blue  and  crimson-petalled  rose. 

Who  has  not  dreamed  that  some  last  rapturous 
day, 

When  evening',  silent  speech  has  just  begun, 
And  the  deep-crimson  clouds  have  turned  to  gray 
That  liveried  the  death-chamber  of  the  sun, 

His  eyes  shall  open  on  scenes  lovelier 
Than  ever  sveept  on  man's  bewildered  sight 

In  Indian  isles,  where  languid  spice-winds  stir 
Luxuriant  forests  the  long  summer  night; 

In  any  orient,  or  enchanted  land 
That  in  poetic  vision  e'er  had  binh. 

Where  fevered  souls  by  featheiy  palms  are  fanned. 
And  beauty  springs  perennial  from  the  earth; 

Where  hill  and  valley,  sea  and  sky  are  wed 
In  bonds  of  princely  colour,  perfect  line 

Where  ruby  lights  the  landscape  overspread. 
From  clouds  that  crisp-waved  seas  incarnadine. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SONG 

Q     GIVE  me  a  place  in  the  garden  of  song, 

I  would  linger  and  labour  there  all  sum- 
mer long. 
There  are  comers  to  care  for,  stray  beds  to  make 

bloom, 
I  ask  not  for  wages,  I  only  seek  room 
In  the  garden  of  song. 

The  soil  is  so  fertile,  the  season  so  fair. 
There  are  life-throbs  and  thrills  in  the  magical  air, 
I  would  nourish  and  nurture  the  delicate  seed, 
I  would  watch  the  young  plants,  I  would  water  and 
weed, 

In  the  garden  of  song. 

What  joy  to  help  Nature  burst  forth  into  flower. 
To  add  a  fresh  rose  here  and  there  to  her  bower. 
Make  daisies  spring  softly,  and  lilies  unfold, 
And  dafl^odils  deluge  the  brown  earth  with  gold. 
In  the  garden  of  song. 


25 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SONG 

I  may  not  have  (kill  in  the  gardener'i  art 
To  .ummon  to  .trength  all  the  wed.  of  the  heart, 
But  w,th  love  a.  it.  impuLe,  and  beauty  it.  end 
There  mu.t  be  wme  fruit  from  the  labour  I  .pe^d 
In  the  garden  of  wng. 

In  the  wane  of  the  year,  when  sweet  .ummer  i.  done 
If  my  v,ole„  from  heaven',  clear  fountain  have 

won 
The  blue  that  i,'  kept  there  exhau.tles,  a.  light. 
If  my  pan.,e,  have  drawn  down  some  purple  from 

night 
To  the  garden  cf  song; 

If  a  heart  here  and  there  has  been  lifted  from 

gloom 
;^it  looked  at  the  rose,  my  care  had  made  bloom. 
The  wmd,  of  late  autumn  will  not  seem  so  wild, 
rhe  snow,  not  so  cheerless  stem  winter  V  .s  piled 
Round  my  garden  of  song. 


a6 


THE  ROOTS  OF  THE  ROSES 

npHE  roses  come,  and  the  roses  go, 

But  the  roots  of  the  roses  live  under  the 
snow. 
To  visions  awhile  in  their  tents  they  cling. 
But  they  wake  at  the  bugle-call  of  spring. 

Life's  pleasures  come,  and  life's  pleasures  go. 
But  the  roots  of  true  joy  shelter  under  the  snow. 
The  hope  of  the  heart  has  its  winter's  drear, 
But  the  roses  come  back  when  the  brooks  run  cle^r. 

Friendships  are  bom,  and  friendships  die. 
But  the  fountain  of  love  runs  never  dry. 
The  blossoms  of  fellowship  come  and  go, 
But  the  roots  of  the  roses  live  under  the  snow. 


27 


THE  VOYAGE   OF  SLEEP 

'  I  ""O  sleep  I  give  myself  away, 
■*■       Unclasp  the  fetters  of  the  mind, 
Forget  the  sorrows  of  the  day, 
The  burdens  of  the  heart  unbind; 


I 


With  empty  sail  this  wave-tired  bark 
Drifts  out  upon  the  sea  of  rest. 

While  all  the  shore  behind  grows  dark, 
And  silence  reigns  from  east  to  west. 

At  last  awakes  the  hidden  breeze 
That  bears  me  to  the  land  of  dreams, 

Where  music  sighs  among  the  trees 
And  murmurs  in  the  shadowy  streams. 

O  weary  day,  O  weary  day. 

That  dawns  in  fear  and  ends  in  strife. 

That  brings  no  cooling  draught  to  allay 
The  burning  fever  thirst  of  life; 

28 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  ?LI- l-P 

O  sacred  night,  when  ?  gei  hands 
Are  pressed  upon  the  t^^rohSinf'  brow, 

And  when  the  soul  on  shining  sands 
Descends  with  angels  from  the  prow. 

And  sees  soft  skies  and  meadows  sweet, 
And  blossoming  lanes  that  wind  and  wind 

To  bowers  where  friends  long  parted  meet 
And  sit  again  with  arms  entwined, 

And  catch  the  perfumed  breeze  that  blows 
From  pink-plumed  orchards  sloping  fair 

And    every   fresh-expanding    rose 
That  throws  sweet  kisses  to  the  air. 

O  sacred  night,  O  silvery  shore, 
O  blossoming  lanes  that  wind  and  wind. 

Ye  are  my  refuge  more  and  more 

From  ghosts  that  haunt  the  waking  mind. 

To  sleep   I  give   myself  away. 

Forget  the  visions  of  unrest 
That  came  through  all  the  clamorous  day. 

And  drift  into  the  silent  west. 


J9 


AUTUMN    POMPS 

■^JEVER  wore  an  Indian  King 

Richer  robes  than  Autumn  weaves, 
Broidered  dedp  with  sumach  leaves, 
Round  earth's  ripening  form  to  fling. 

Never  mixed  such  magic  dyes 
Tyrian  artificers  old, 
Persian  palaces  of  gold 
To  enrich,  as  meet  our  eyes: 

Maples  mantling  distant  hills 
Kindle  flames  of  scarlet  rare, 
Trumpet-vines   with    orient    flare 
Drape  the  dusky  window-sills; 

Purple  asters  line  the  way 
Where  the  plodding  labourer  goes, 
Goldenrod  the  plain  o'erflows, 
Salvias  make  the  garden  gay; 


30 


■ 


AUTUMN  POMPS 

Nightshade  berries  gleaming  red 
Dip  their  burnished  spheres  in  dew. 
With    the   gentian's   fringes    blue 
Many  a  mound  is  carpeted. 

Scarlet   cannas    lure   the    sun 
To  their  chalice  centres  warm, 
Orange-turbaned  lilies  swarm 
Where  the  close-clipped  hedges  run. 

Great  magician,  Nature,  tell 
Where  the  fount  of  colour  lies 
Whence  thou  draw'st,  ere  summer  dies, 
Grace  like  this  for  field  and  fell; 

Make  the  lovely  current  spread. 
Arched   above  with   purple  haze, 
When  we  reach  our  autumn  days. 
Round  the  paths  our  souls  shall  tread; 

Crimson  hopes  about  us  strew. 
Golden   memories   in    us   light. 
Let  us  drift  adown  the  night 
On  soft,   billowy  wave-thoughts  blue. 


3» 


\] 


LOMBARDY  POPLARS 

"DEFORE  the  planters'  houses  old 

■'-'     They  stand  like  statues,  stern  and  cold, 

Of  foreign  lineage  proud  to  be. 

The  poplars  t?ll  of  Lombardy. 

SoiJ-clustering  lilacs  droop  below 
O'er  banks  of  lustrous  golden  glow, 
And  purple  foxgloves  bend  to  greet 
Green  spangled  mosses  at  their  feet, 


But  they  look  on  with  moveless  face. 
Nor  yield  to  friendliness  or  grace 
In  blossoming  vine  or  bush  or  tree. 
The  poplars  tall  of  Lombardy. 

Why  passed  New  England's  yeomen  by 
Their  native  woods   indifferently. 
Refused  the  oak  and  maple  fair. 
And  gracious  elm  with  breeding  rare, 

3* 


LOMBARDY  POPLARS 

And  these  grim  strangers  from  the  Po, 
All  taciturn  and  hard  to  know, 
Transplanted  here,  unloved  to  be. 
The  poplars  tall  of  Lombard/? 

The   hearts   of  that   undaunted   band 
Who  left  in  wrath  the  motheriand 
Contemned   the   syren    beauty's   charm, 
Or   shunned    her   features   in    alarm; 

They  feared,  perhaps,  the  landscape  bare 
Would  false  become  if  it  grew  fair. 
Wide-branching  elms  might  cloak  in  shade 
Some  graceless  thing  old  earth  had  made, 

But  sin  or  schism  could   never  shield 
From  sleepless  watch,   by  dyke  or  field. 
Of  sentries  strict  as  these  would  be. 
The  poplars  tall  of  Lombardy. 

So  they  were  set  in  rows  severe, 
From   sunny  spring  to   autumn   sere 
Like  mutes  at  funeral  feasts  to  stand. 
While  joy  should  bourgeon  in  the  land. 

33 


i! 


LOMBARDY  POPLARS 

And  now  they  gaze,  outworn  and  old, 
The  men  who  loved  them  turned  to  mould. 
On  scarce  a  friend  this  side  the  sea. 
The   poplars   tall   of  Lombardy. 


34 


ONCE  AGAIN  THE  SUMMER  DIES 

/^NCE  again  the  summer  dies 

Not  with  dirge  and  deep  despair, 
Not  with  meanings  to  the  air, 
Not  with  wildly-weeping  skies. 

Once   again   the   summer  dies. 
Conscious  that  her  strength  is  spent. 
Yet  with   measureless   content 
Breathing  out  her  last  good-byes. 

Once   again   the  summer  dies, 
Ruddy   bloom   to   riper  yields. 
Nature  plays  in  woods  and  fields 
Sensuous  colour-symphonies. 

Once  again  the  summer  dies, 
Purpit  grapes  and  yellow  corn 
Deck  the  bier  so  softly  borne 
To  the  chamber  where  she  lies. 

35 


ONCE  AGAIN  THE  SUMMER  DIES 

Once  again  the  summer  dies, 
Tender  lights  on  sea  and  shore 
Seek  the  soul,  untouched  before, 
With   soft  importunities. 

Once  again  the  summer  dies. 
But  the  walls  of  death  are  thin. 
And  the  spirit  cased  within 
Waits  the  kiss  of  living  skies. 


iH 


i 
/i'l 


THE  WHALING  TOWN 

A  DZE  and  hammer  and  anvil-stroke 
■*  ■*    Echo  not  on  the  shore, 
The  wharves  are  crumbling,  old  and  gray. 
And  the  whale-ships  come  no  more. 

Grass  grows  thick  in  the  empty  streets, 
And  moss  o'er  the  blackened  roofs. 

And  the  people  are  roused  to  wonderment 
At  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs. 

There's  not  a  woman  in  all  the  town 

But  keeps  in  memory 
The  face  of  a  husband,  a  lover,  a  friend, 

Lost,  she  says,  at  sea; 

Lost  in  the  days  when  in  every  storm 
Some  well-known  ship  went  down. 

And  mothers  wept,  and  fathers  prayed. 
In  the  little  whaling  town, 

37 


fl 


\ 


THE  WHALING  TOWN 

When  food  was  gained  by  toil  as  now, 
But  not  in  the  fields  at  noon, 

For  the  toiler's  sickle,  scythe,  or  plow 
Was  the  fisherman's  harpoon. 

When  every  sail  the  children  saw 
As  they  tossed  the  sparkling  sand, 

Came  from  the  storehouse  of  the  sea 
With  light  to  cheer  the  land. 

AdM  and  hammer  and  anvil-stroke 

Echo  not  on   ihf  shore, 
The  fields  are  tilled,  and  the  people  know 

Less  heart-ache  than  of  yore. 

But  still  to  the  edge  of  the  rotting  wharves 

The  tides  from  day  to  day 
Come  with  an  eager  wish  to  bear 

The  whalers'  craft  away. 

And  many  an  aged  mariner  looks 
Across  the  tumbling  sea 

And  dreams  that  the  strong-built  ships  are  there 
As  thick  as  they  used  to  be. 


38 


THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST 

(to  D.  R.  H.) 

nPHOU  far  down  from  the  crest 

In  the  glow  of  the  morning  sun, 
The  peak  for  me  overpast 
In  the  march  of  my  life  to  the  west; 
And  I  know  not  which  is  the  best. 

Thou  with  thy  zeal  and  zest, 

I    with  the  strife  near  done,— 

A  brook  that  floweth  fast. 

Or  a  lake  that  lies  at  rest; 

And  I  know  not  which  is  the  best. 

Thou  with  truth  as  thy  quest. 
And  the  goal,  thou  thinkest,  in  view, 
I  with  a  milder  hope, 
Though  still  to  duty  prest,— 
And  I  know  not  which  is  the  best. 


39 


THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST 

Thy   faith    in    rote-tint   dreit, 
Mine  in  a  soberer  hue, 
From  the  h'ght  on  the  eanem  ilope, 
Or  the  gray  of  the  darkening  west, 
And  I  know  not  which  is  the  best. 

Yet  over  the  hill's  high  crest 
Sometimes    I   turn   to   thee. 
And  side  by  side  for  an  hour, 
To  love's  sweet  task  addrest. 
We  walk,  the  east  and  the  west. 

My   spirit   then    at   rest 
Like  the  waves  of  a  summer  sea, 
A   passive   thrall   of  thy  power, 
No    longer   makes    request 
Or  asks  of  worst  or  best. 


40 


THOU  ART  MY  GUIDING   STAR 

'J^HOU  art  my  guiding  star. 

Swing  not  in  heaven  too  high, 
For  earth  from  heaven  i&  far. 
I  need  thee  nigh. 

Thou   art   my  guiding  star, 
When  thou  reigns't  o'er  the  night 

No  mist  can  rise  to  mar 
My  soul's  dehght. 

Thou   art   my  guiding  star, 

If  I  am  ever  led 
Beyond  the  harbour  bar. 

My    courage    stead. 

Thou  art  my  guiding  star. 
Should  I  on  some  strange  sea 

Make  voyage  with  broken  spar. 
Keep   close   to   me. 


41 


THOU  ART  MY  GUIDING  STAR 

Be,  love,  my  guiding  star 
Till  churlish  clouds  are  past, 

And  I  from  journeying  far 
Come  home  at  last. 


4« 


I 


'TWERE  BETTER  TO  LOVE 

"'Tli  better  u  tan  loieil  ud  leet 
TbM  iieirerto  bare  loved  at  aU." 

»'T^WERE    better    to  love,  though   the   heart 
be  broken, 
Than  to  sit  alone,  from  passion  free, 
Never  to  have  a  sign  or  token 
Of  the  Hfe  that  deepest  lies  in  thee. 

'Twere  better  to  love,  though  peace  should  never 

Softly  climb  to  thy  soul  again, 
Than  to  live  the  blinded  life  forever 

Of  barren-hearted,  loveless  men. 

Twere  better  far  that  the  gates,  in  shadow. 
Of  heaven,  should  once  have  come  in  view. 

Than  that  thou  till  death,  from  thy  dull  meadow, 
Shouldst  never  have  seen  the  pearl  and  blue.  ' 


43 


THE  POET'S  BRAIN 

'TpHE  vaulted  chambers  of  the  poet's  brain 
•*•       Are  peopled  by  a  restless  throng  who  beat 
Bewildering  music,  sometimes  low  and  sweet, 
Sometimes  a  loud,  wild-resonant  refrain. 

There  glide  pale,  sheeted  ghosts  of  long-spent 
years, — 
Sweet,  sensuous  loves  of  youth  that  lived  an  hour, 
Hope's   phantom   forms,   delicious   dreams   of 
power. 
When  all  the  world  was  new,  and  later  fears 

Entangled  not  the  boy's  swift-flying  feet. 
Beneath  the  dim,  unearthly  arches  hide 
Odours  from  far-off  flowers,  and  there  abide 

The  mother-songs  that  childhood's  ears  first  greet. 


44 


THE  PIPES  OF  PAN 

/^  VOICELESS  poet,  find  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
A  torrent  of  sweet  song  lies  back  of  thee. 
Time  is  too  short  to  voice  the  melody 

Created  for  thee  ere  the  world  began. 

O  voiceless  poet,  find  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
Nor  tiy  to  slalce  men's  thirst  with  common  speech , 
Its  own  divinest  lessons  Truth  must  teach 

In  music,  to  the  throbbing  ears  of  man. 

O  voiceless  poet,  find  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
They  are  thine  own  familiar  river-reeds. 
Inspire  our  earth-bound  souls  to  nobler  deeds, 

Stir  the  soft  air  our  fevered  lips  to  fan. 


45 


m 

IBi 

Ifi 


I  WATCH  THE  SHIPS 

T  WATCH  the  ships  by  town  and  lea 
■*■  With  sails  full  set  glide  out  to  sea, 
Till  by  the  distant  light-house  rock 
The  breakers  beat  with  roar  and  shock. 
And  crisp  foam  whitening  all  the  decks; 
While  deep  below  lie  ocean's  wrecks. 
What  careth  she! 

I  stand  beside  the  beaten  quay 
And  look  while  laden  ships  from  sea 
Come  proudly  home  upon  the  tide 
Like  conquering  kings,  at  eventide; 
Or  from  fierce  fights  with  wintry  gales 
Steal  harbourward  with  tattered  sails, 
O  cruel  seal 

I  pass  the  ancient  moss-grown  pier 
Where  men  have  waited  year  by  year 


I  WATCH  THE  SHIPS 

For  ships  that  ne'er  again  shall  glide 
By  town  and  lea  on  favouring  tide, 
Strong  ships  that  struggled  till  the  gales 
Of  winter  hid  their  shrouds  and  sails 
In  ocean  drear. 


With  sails  fuM  set  young  spirits  glide 
From  harbour,  on  a  sea  untried, 
To  breast  the  waves  and  bear  the  shocks 
Beyond  the  guarded  light-house  rocks, 
To  strive  with  tempests  many  a  year; 
Strong  souls,  indeed,  if  they  can  bear 
Life's  wind  and  tidel 

I  watch  beside  the  beaten  quay 
The  surf  bring  back  all  joyously 
To  anchor  by  the  sheltered  shore 
Souls  laden  deep  with  precious  ore. 
Or  spices  won  from  perfumed  sands 
Of  rich,  luxuriant  tropic  lands,— 
O  kindly  seal 


But  some  come  back  on  wintry  gales 
With  broken  spars  an  \  shattered  sails 

47 


I  WATCH  THE  SHIPS 

And  fling  to  shore  a  feeble  rope; 
While  many  a  loving  heart  in  hope 
Waits  on  for  ships  that  nevermore 
Shall  anchor  by  a  friendly  shore, 
O  sad,  sad  seal 


a 


Wi 


FOUNDRY  FIRES 

CEE  the  foundry  fires  gleaming 
'-'  With  strange,  meteoric  light. 
Listen  to  the  anvils  ringing 

Measured  music  on  the  night; 
Clanking,  clinking,  never  shrinking, 

Strike  the  iron,  mould  it  well. 
On  the  progress  of  the  nations 

Each  determined  stroke  shall  tell! 

Showers  of  fiery  sparks  are  falling 

Thick  about  the  workmen's  feet, 
Some  are  carried  by  the  night  wind 

Far  along  the  winding  street; 
Clanking,  clinking,  never  shrinking. 

Labour  lifts  her  arm  on  high. 
And  the  sparks  fly  from  her  anvils 

Out  upon  the  darkened  sky. 


49 


FOUNDRY  FIRES 

In  the  quickened  glow  of  feeling, 

'Neath  the  anvil  strokes  of  thought, 
Ancient  errors  disappearing, 

Nobler  creeds  to  birth  are  brought; 
Clanking,  clinking,  never  shrinking, 

Strike  the  trufh,  yea  mould  it  well, 
On  the  progress  of  the  nations 

Each  unswerving  stroke  shall  tell. 

Crude  the  mass  time's  fiery  forges 

At  your  eag^r  feet  have  hurled, 
Centuries  of  toil  must  follow 

Ere  ye  shape  a  perfect  world; 
Yet  with  clanking,  clinking,  clanking, 

Strike  the  iron,  shape  the  truth, 
Knowledge  is  at  last  beginning. 

Thought  is  in  its  lusty  youth. 

O  ye  forgemen  of  the  nations. 

Keep  the  world's  great  fires  alight, 
Let  the  sparks  fly  fiom  your  anvils 

All  along  the  roads  of  night; 
Clanking,  clinking,  never  shrinking. 

Work  till  stars  fade,  and  the  mom 
Of  diviner  faith  and  feeling 

In  the  radiant  east  is  bom. 


SO 


THE  STREET  ORGAN 

A  N  organ  grinding  below  in  the  street, 
^*-    You  smile  that  I  think  the  music  sweet, 
And  you  think  it  strange  that  I  love  to  listen. 
And  stranger  still  that  tear  drops  glisten 
In  my  eyes,  where  so  seldom  a  tear  is 'seen; 

Ah,  if  you  knew  how  many  things. 
Like  twilight-birds  with  silver  wings. 
Come  back  with  these  simple  airs  to  me 
Over  the  leagues  of  summer  sea 
My  boyhood  self  and  me  between; 

If  you  knew  that  a  voice  I  am  hungiy  to  hear 
Spoke  thro'  the  music,  plaintive,  clear. 
That  a  face  appeared  as  the  old  tunes  play, 
A  face  I  have  longed  for  night  and  day 
And  never  see  except  in  my  dreams. 


SI 


THE  STREET  ORGAN 

You  would  not  wonder  I  stop  and  liiten, 
You  would  not  wonder  that  tear-drops  glisten 
In  my  eyes,  as  down  to  the  street  below 
A  few  poor  pennies  I  gently  throw 
For  the  grinder  to  snatch  from  the  passing  teams. 


i 


5* 


FLOOD  TIDE 

""  I  '"HE  tide  came  up  as  the  sun  went  down, 
*       And  the  river  was  full  to  its  sedgy  brim, 

And  a  little  boat  crept  up  to  the  town 
On  the  muddy  wave,  at  evening  dim; 

But  that  slender  stiff  with  its  reed-like  oar 
Brought  news  to  the  town  that  broke  its  sleep. 

And  the  people  were  startled  as  never  before, 
And  a  harvest  of  pain  was  theirs  to  reap : 

Brought  news  of  a  wreck  that  the  rower  had  seen 

Off  in  the  bay  in  a  boisterous  gale; 
Common  enough,  such  things,  I  ween. 

Yet  the  women  cried  and  the  men  were  pale. 

Strange  that  so  tiny  a  craft  could  bring 

Tidings  to  plunge  a  town  in  tears; 
Ay  me  I  and  how  often  some  trivial  thing 

Makes  wreck  of  the  loftiest  hope  of  years. 

53 


FLOOD  TIDE 

O  none  but  the  angel  with  silver  wingi , 
That  watchei  the  river  and  wards  the  town, 

Is  ware  of  the  woe  each  evening  brings, 
As  the  tide  comes  up  and  the  sun  goes  down  I 


THE  VIRGIN'S  SHRINE 

II^HO  kneels  in  silent  rapture  on  the  sod 
~  '       In  open  sky,  or  on  the  marble  floor 
Of  some  dark  church  his  soul's  true    prayers 
says  o'er, 
Adores  the  holy  motherhood  of  God. 

The  shrine  of  Maiy  is  not  reverenced  less 

By  men  whose  feet  are  swift,  whose  arms  are 

strong, 
Than  by  sweet  woman-souls  to  whom  belong 

By  right  maternity  and  gentleness. 

All  lofty  things  in  our  conception  meet 
In  the  divine,  all  beautiful  and  good; 
The  sterner  attributes  of  Fatherhood 

Alone  make  not  for  man  a  God  complete. 

If  we  at  Mary's  altars  •^est  may  feel 

God's  true  maternity,  there  should  we  kneel. 


55 


I 


AN  ORIENT  PRAYER 

"HnlDf  obtalied  tranqiiUtf  ou  ii  on  irogbted,  iiid  ruulDlnf  u  ii  even 
It  lh«llaeof  dcaib.hc  juamon  to  Mdnctloo  la  Ibe  I 


Sriilt.' 
-'MbtgMVMd  GU» 

TI/ITH  undimmed  eye 

I  listen  to  thp  wisdom  old  which  saith: 
Man  shall  be  reabsorbed  in  God  at  death. 
The  human  spirit  is  a  deep-drawn  breath 
Oj  Him  on  high. 


No  Hving  thing 
Save  man  has  ever  dreamed  of  higher  spheres 
Wherein  to  taste  delights  the  fleeting  years 
Have  here  denied,  or  compensate  earth's  fears 

And  sufl^ering. 

Sad  hearts  that  pray. 
Soft  petalled  crimson  flowers  that  bloom  and  fade, 
Trees  that  grow  sturdier  in  storm  and  shade. 
Begotten  are  they  all  of  God,  not  made 

Like  cups  of  clay. 

56 


AN  ORIENT  PRAYER 

Why  have  we  right 
To  some  chief  boon  of  immortality 
Not  given  our  brothers  of  the  wood  and  sky,— 
Strong  beasts,  soft-fluttering  winged  birds,  that  fl 

From  light  to  light  ? 

Then  let  me  go 
Into  the  long  hereafter  joyously, 
To  live,  yet  not  to  live  apart  from  thee, 
From  thy  great  life  the  !i'"s  now  lent  to  me 

No  more  to  flow. 

The  Ocean  vast 
Has  need  of  all  his  wayward  waves  and  streams, 
The  Central  Sun  has  need  of  all  his  beams; 
It  is  full  time  these  empty,  isolate  dreams 

Of  mine  were  past. 

I  turn  to  thee, 
O  thou  great  Father,  Universal  Soul, 
Unheeding  the  false  bells  that  seem  to  toll 
Dead  things;  for  all  life's  turbid  rivers  roll 

Back  to  the  sea. 


57 


AN  ORIENT  PRAYER 

O  what  can  be 
So  grand  for  Nature  or  for  Man,  what  fate 
So  lofty,  as  to  sweep  in  solemn  state 
At  evening  through  a  majestic,  open  gate 

To  Deity! 


ANSWER  OF  A  DESPONDENT  SOUL 

'^7'OV  tell  me  that  life  may  have  songs  or  sighs 
■*•      As  men  shall  elect  their  lot, 
This  is  one  of  your  winning  lies, 
In  childish  faith  begot; 

A  favoured  fiew  to  the  purple  bom 
Make  sport  of  the  threats  of  chance, 

Look  at  the  race,  oppressed  and  vfom. 
Poor  slaves  of  circumstance  I 

ff^e  may  take  what  wt  will  our  strength  to  stay. 

Fine  wheaten  bread,  or  a  stone. 
We  may  walk  in  the  sun  the  livelong  Jay, 

Or  move  in  the  shade  alone; 


We  may  gather  a  store  of  hope  or  doukt. 
Grow  warm  at  the  fires  of  love. 

Or  freeze  in  the  open  fields  without, 
A  wintry  sky  above: — 

59 


ANSWER  OF  A  DESPONDENT  SOUL 

I  pray  you  look  over  the  walls  of  your  creed, 
Heaven-sentried  and  staunch  as  they  seem, 

At  the  manacled  shapes  of  human  need 
With  which  the  ages  teem; 


At  the  quivering  hearts  that  creak  and  strain 
In  the  trough  of  a  maddened  sea. 

At  the  sinewy  hands  that  seek  in  vain 
Strong  opportunity. 

1 

What  we  are  given  we  have,  and  fate 
(Name  it  God  if  you  will)  may  be  kind. 

But  she  shuts  in  our  face  the  iron  gate 
Of  her  plan,  and  keeps  us  blind. 

We  sit  in  the  midst  of  a  clamouring  crowd 

Of  priests  .-md  lettered  men. 
But  we  find  that  they  only  babble  loud 

Of  things  beyond  their  ken; 


We  peer  through  the  mists  that  fall  like  night 

On  our  island's  shifting  sand. 
But  there  never  comes  a  gleam  of  light 

From  any  larger  land; 


60 


ANSWER  OF  A  DESPONDENT  SOUL 

If  worlds  have  been  made  where  we  may  mend 

Our  life-work,  soiled  and  torn, 
If  heavens  can  be  found  where  come  to  end 

The  griefs  our  hearts  have  borne. 

No  soul  has  come  back  of  the  dead  we  love 

To  tell  us  whether  they  lie 
In  the  silent  blu?  of  the  arch  above. 

Or  in  some  subjective  sky. 

What  is  left  ?  'Tis  to  hope,  and  take  our  wage 

From  whatever  powers  there  be; 
But  to  scorn  with  the  scorn  of  a  truthful  age 

All  cheap  philosophy. 


6i 


IT  MATTERS  MUCH 

'IIT'HETHER  I  live  in  the  crowded  town, 

Or  in  si^cious  lands  beside  the  sea. 
Since  the  curtain  of  life  so  soon  comes  down 
What  difference  can  it  make  to  me, 
But  whether  I  feel  the  trembling  touch 
Of  the  hand  of  need,  where'er  it  be. 
This  matters  much. 

Whether  the  breezes  from  sweet  fields  blow 

Through  my  spirit's  halls  in  tenderness. 

Or,  bleak  from  the  hills  of  ice  and  snow 

Give  me  a  foe's  unkind  caress. 

If  only  I  have  the  love  of  such 

As  long  for  a  brother's  tenderness, 

I  care  not  much. 


For  life  with  its  toil  and  pain  and  sin 
Leaves  every  spirit  tired  at  best, 

62 


IT  MATTERS  MUCH 

And  I  trow  of  the  care  that  lodges  in 

Many  a  soul  that  seems  at  rest; 

So  I  pray  that  Heaven  through  my  hand's  touch 

May  healing  bring  some  hearts  un  blest,— 

This  matters  muchl 


63 


NOT  IN  VAIN 

THOUGH  angry  tempests  plough  the  sea 
And  hide  the  hravens  at  night, 
Life  is  not  lived  in  vain  if  we 
Keep  simple  truth  in  sight, 
In  following  it  the  soul  shall  find 
Some  sweet,  secluded  bay, 
Where  doubts  that  long  have  chased  the  mind 
Shall  shrink  and  fade  away. 

Life  is  not  lived  in  vain  if  we 

In  cold  mid-winter's  gloom 

May  clothe  one  barren,  leafless  tree 

With  copious   summer   bloom; 

To  braid  the  luminous  stars  again 

Across  some  darkened  sky — 

This  is  heaven's  ovm  true  task  for  men 

To  compass,  ere  they  die! 


64 


COMPELLING  THOUGHTS 

piTY  the  man  who  has  no  gift  of  speech 

*•      For  those  compelling  thoughts,  that  peace 

and  pain, 
That  press  unsought  from  the  remoter  reach 
Of  mind  and  soul  to  the  near  heart  and  brain; 

Who  plucks  a  wild-flower  in  a  dewy  field, 
Or  lifts  a  pebble  from  the  dusty  road, 

And  reverent  reads  the  secrets  Truth  has  sealed 
In  the  small  flower  or  stone,  of  man  and  God; 

Who  sees  beneath  the  sunset's  red  and  gold. 
Behind  the  silver  silence  of  the  stars, 

Visions  like  those  vouchsafed  to  seers  of  old, 
Yet  fate  keeps  dumb,  or  from  fit  utterance  bars. 

What  joy  is  his  who  has  an  open  eye 
For  the  great  truths  concealed  in  rocks  and  trees, 

Discerns  the  thoughts  of  God  in  earth  and  sky. 
And  has  the  power  to  tell  men  what  he  sees. 


6S 


I") 


i: 


IF  I  COULD  HAVE  IT  BACK 

TF  I  could  have  it  back, 

-*■     The  sweet  expectancy  I  used  to  feel 

When  time  was  young,  and  all  my  dreams  were  real. 

And  endless  years  seemed  held  in  trust  for  me, 

How  glad  my  heart  would  be. 


li 


If  I  could  have  it  back. 

The  fond  forgetfulness  I  used  to  know 

Of  all  the  petty  ills  that  plagued  me  so, 

As  soon  as  night's  kind  shadows  round  me  fell. 

Again  I'd  love  life  well. 


If  I  could  have  it  back. 
The  treasure  lost  in  bogs  of  blind  mistake, 
Could  bid  the  remorseless  past  to  pity  wake 
And  once  again  restore  to  me  my  right, 
O  I  would  hold  it  tight. 

66 


IF  I  COULD  HAVE  IT  BACK 

I  cannot  have  them  back, 
The  flood  that  moved  the  mill  has  swept  to  sea, 
The  treasures  gone  will  not  return  to  me; 
But  if  through  loss  above  myself  I  rise, 
Such  loss  my  soul  must  prize. 


67 


PEARLS  THAT  ARE  RAREST 

PEARLS  that  are  rarest 
Hide  lowest  in  sea, 
Flowers  that  are  fairest 
Most   perishing   be, 


1    \ 


Sunshine  the  brightest 
Comes  soonest  to  rain. 

Hearts  that  are  lightest 
Sink   lowest   in   pain. 


Go  with  the  divers 
Down   under  the  wave, 

Patientest  strivers 
Best  jewels   shall   have. 

Live  with  the  roses. 

Though  fleeting  are  they. 
When   summer  closes 

Their  perfume  shall  stay; 

68 


;-i     i ' 


PEARLS  THAT  ARE  RAREST 

Treature  the  ioiTOTr 
That  breaketh  thy  re«t. 

Through  it  to-morrow 
Thy  toul  (hall  be  blett. 


1  'J, 


'Jii 


J 


Ui, 


LOVE  LETTERS 

T  T  T'HO  keeps  not  somewhere  safely  stored  away, 
»  '  Like  jewels  in  a  casket  quaint,  from  view, 
A  bundle  of  love-letters,  old  or  new, 

Yellow  with  age,  or  fresh  as  buds  of  May. 

Who,  sometimes,  ih  the  silence  of  the  night. 
With  stealthy  fingers  does  not  draw  them  forth. 
Dear,  tender  treasures,  not  of  common  worth, 

And  live  the  old  love  o'er  that  suffered  blight. 


Mi 

1  V  : 


Yes,  here  are  mine,  not  faded  yet  with  ytirs. 
Sometimes  I  laugh  at  the  old  tender  flame 
That  kindled  them,  but  is  it  any  shame 

To  whisper  they  are  wet,  to-night,  with  tears. 

What  strange,  persistent  power  love  has  to  hold 
Its  life,  though  all  its  ashes  have  grown  cold. 


it  I 


70 


THE  HEARTH  IS  COLD 

'  I  '■HE  hearth  is  cold,  the  fire  no  more 

■*•       Glows  in  the  twilight  gray, 
'Tis  colder,  colder,  than  before 
The  bright  flame  had  its  way. 

Love's  (ire  is  quenched,  its  glow  is  o'er. 

Its  ashes  now  are  gray, 
My  heart  is  colder  than  before 

The  red  flame  had  its  way. 


I  shall  remember  it  no  more. 
This    passion    of    a    day. 

But  I  am  glad,  though  it  is  o'er. 
The  (ire  once  had  its  way. 


THE  MYSTERY 

■p  ESTLIJSS  world  I  love  thee  well, 
■'•^     Sparkle  of  the  sunlit  sea, 
Flitting  shapes  on  moor  and  fell, 
Nature's   colour-mystety; 

But,  wide  world,  thy  raptures  lie 
In  the  love-warp  in  thy  plan, 

The  deep  colour-mystery 
Of  the  love  of  man  for  man. 


7a 


THE   MEADOW-LANDS 

I    HE  tide  flows  in  and  out  and  leaves 
■*•       Luxuriance  on  the  meadow  lands. 
The  barren  mould  with  power  enweaves 
And  fertile  makes  the  sterile  sands. 

The  meadow-lands  of  life  lie  bare, 
The  tide  comes  up,  the  tide  recedes, 

The  muddy  wave's  residuum  there 
Creates  the  soil  for  lofty  deeds. 

Mjrsterious  tides  that  silent  creep 
Across  the  meadows  of  my  soul. 

And   from   the   nameless   nether-deep 
Your  silt  of  joy  and  sorrow  roll, 

This  waste  turn  to  a  field  of  flowers, 
And  foster  many  a  noble  tree, 

Make  fruitful  all  the  barren  powers 
That  lie  unwakened  yet  in  me. 


73 


SMALL  AND  GREAT 

THE  ripple  that  stirs  on  the  sea  of  thought 
As  we  drop  our  smallest  question  there, 
Into  the  ocean's  life  is  wrought 
And  moves  it  everywhere. 

Who  strikes  a  chord  in  the  human  soul, 
Be  he  labourer,  poet,  priest,  or  sage, 

Makes  music  that  rings  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  lasts  from  age  to  age. 

The  feeblest   prayer  that  to  heaven   flies 
Has  infinite  power  beneath  its  wing, 

And  the  treasure  of  peace  it  brings  from  the  skies 
Is  not  a  foreign  thing. 

For  all  is  in  each,  and  each  in  all, 

Twixt  Heaven  and  Earth  there  is  no  line. 

The  small  is  the  great,  the  great  the  small. 
And  truth  is  mine  and  thine. 


74 


I  I 


I  PLUCKED  A  DAISY 

T  PLUCKED  a  daisy  from  the  sand, 
-■■      A  white  field-daisy,  carelessly, 
I  saw  it  tremble  in  my  hand 
And  cast  a  piteous  glance  at  me; 

Its  sisters  seemed  to  chide  me  too, 
Enclustered  thick  beside  the  way. 

And  beg  me,  since  their  hours  were  few 
At  best,  in  peace  to  let  them  stay. 

Then  as  they  bent  'heir  golden  heads. 
Rimmed  close  with  bonnets  snowy-white, 

Tears  seemed  to  come  like  silver  beads 
From  their  soft  eyes,  and  dim  the  night. 

O   little   daisies   of  the   sod. 

One  law  controls  your  life  and  mine. 
Ye  are  the  humblest  flowers  of  God, 

But  ye  like  man  are  half  divine. 


75 


■fp" 


I  PLUCKED  A  DAISY 

And  as  ye  cheer  the  dusty  walk, 
And  whiten  all  the  meadows  fair, 

I  see  a  spirit  on  each  ~st»lk 
That  moves  responsive  to  the  air. 


Bloom  on,  bloom  -<n,  nor  shrink  from  me, 
Ye  too  are  of  the  sunlight  fond, 

I  will  not  mar  your  pleasure  free, 
I  will  not  break  your  life's  sweet  bond. 


PEASANT  AND  KING 

'  I  '•HERE'S  little  to  choose  in  this  world  of  ours 

•*•       'Twixt  the  peasant  and  the  King, 
Though  the  monarch  has  music,  wine,  and  flowers. 

And  a  noble  signet  ring, 
While  the  peasant  sports  on  the  village  green 

In  a  suit  of  homespun  gray; 
The  pleasure  of  one  is  just  as  keen 

As  the  other's,  every  way. 

Each   carries   a   heart  that  sings   and   sighs 

By  turns,  as  the  changes  come. 
Each  finds  in  his  lot  some  sad  surprise 

At  which  his  lips  grow  dumb; 
Passion   and   pride  and   lust  and  greed 

Are  mixed  with  the  good  in  each. 
And  heavy  are  both  with  a  hidden  need 

That  heaven  alone  can  reach. 


77 


PEASANT  AND  KING 

The  nv  narch  has  laws  he  must  obey 

And  burdens  he  must  bear, 
The  peasant  is  anxious  every  day, 

Though  not  from  kingly  care, — 
And  both  look  i;r  to  the  same  great  sky. 

Fenced  thick  with  f»olden  stars, 
And  crave  a  glimr-.i  i"  the  worlds  that  lie 

Behind  those  £.'>'.  :.mg  bars. 


78 


ARTHURIAN  DAYS 

'IXT'HO  weep  the  good  Arthurian  days, 
~  '     When  men  were  brave  and  women  fair, 
And  knights  to  battle  strode, 
Acknowledge  ye  ::ie  meed  of  praise 
That  all  deserve  who  do  and  dare 
Along  life's  dangerous  road. 


Who   read  inspired   Arthurian   lays 
To  gallant  knights  and  ladies  fair, 
And  bve  in  morning-tide, 
Rejoice  that  in  less  amorous  days 
Romantic  thrills  are  everywhere 
That  youthful  hearts  abide. 

Who  kiadle  at  the  Arthurian  blaze 
Fresh  fires  of  pity  in  the  soul 
For  hofies   by  sorrow   slain. 
Forget  not  in  your  own  sad  days 
The  ■•yriad  mournful  bells  that  toll 
The  world's  incessant  pain. 

79 


!■■'! 


ill 


C; 


ARTHURIAN  DAYS 

Who  weep  the  good  Arthurian  dayi, 
When  men  were  brave  and  women  fair. 
And  gallant  deeds  gave  power. 
Keep  tryst  with  truth,  and  seek  the  praise 
That  loyal  souls  must  ever  share 
With  knighthood's  noblest  flower. 


fo 


A  FIRE  OF  STRAW 

A    FIRE  of  straw  in  field  or  town 
•^^    Obscures  the  bluest  skies, 
To-day's    complaining    echoes    drown 

Time's  grandest  harmonies; 

One  trifling  error  on  the  page 

Full  satisfaction  mars, 
So  earth's  stray  swamp-lights  more  engage 

The  mind,  than  heaven's  great  stars. 

Man's  deepest  instincts  bid  him  rise 

Among  the  rose-red  spheres. 
But    foolish    custom,   when    he   tries. 
Enchains  him  fast  with  fears. 

So  on  he  goes  from  day  to  day. 
His  best  thoughts  suffiering  blight, 

When  all  the  time  his  soul  should  stay 
In  worlds  of  love  and  light. 


8i 


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n 
'I 


THE  POET  PASSED  MY  WAY 

THE  poet  passed  my  way, 
Scattering  about  him  sheaves  of  splendid 
flowers, 
Red,  white,  and  golden-gay. 

Plucked  from  his  soul's  wide  garden  beds  and 
bowers. 

"These  are  earth's  common   blooms, 

Fine-petalled,  fragrant,  fragile  as  the  rest, 

A  few  to  deck  my  rooms 

I'll  gather,"  said  I,  following  toward  the  west; 

But  in  a  moment  more. 

Stooping  to  lift  my  treasures  from  the  sod 
I  found  the   Poet   bore, 

Not  flowers,  but  great  thoughts,  rooted  deep 
in  God. 


82 


M 


THE  POET'S  WORLD 

pAR-REACHING   poet   mind,   nor   metes 
nor  bounds 
May  prophets  uninspired  affix  for  thee, 
Thy  continent  is  a  shore  without  a  sea' 

A  land  unmarred  by  common  sights  or  sounds. 

"Be  satisfied,"  men  cry.'Vith  what  we  teach. 
There  is  no  safety  in   untrodden  ways!" 
Then    call    contemptuously   in    thy    dispraise- 
Song  IS  but  song.  Truth  loves  staid  thought  and 
speech!" 

But  thou,  with  music  melting  thee  to  tears, 
Find'st  hidden  melodies  in  the  common  creeds 
And  p,p,ng  softly  on  thy  various  reeds 

Art  deaf  to  all  their  foolish  frets  and  fears. 

Smg  then  thy  strains,  no  longer  voiceless  be, 

A  world  of  unspent  song  lies  back  of  thee. 


83 


in  ! 


ki'\ 


i 

I 

1 

i 

1 

■     i 

■. 

■  i 

;** 

THE  AWAKENING 

•"  I  ""OO  long  my  soul  has  lain  in  sordid  sleep, 
■*•   Floating,  it  seemed,  on  thin  and  shallow  seas; 
At  last,  aroused,  I  look  into  the  deep 

And  there  behold  unfathomed  mysteries. 

0  love,  sweet  love,  what  gift  is  thine  to  show 
The  spirit's  depths  profound,  what  sorf  'ef's 

power 
To  make  the  hjdden  currents  seen  that  flow 
From  roots  of  thought  to  friendship's  leaf  and 
flower. 

1  am  at  last  more  human  with  my  kind, 
More  reverent  grown,  no  longer  in  the  sod 

The  wearied   heart's  last   resting  place   I   find. 
For  I  have  learned  man's  higher  self  is  God, 

Of  whom  no  sage  on  earth,  no  saint  above. 
Can  say  a  greater  thing  than," He  is  Level" 


84 


If 


DEEPENING  THE  CHANNEL 

jy    ROCKY  channel  from  the  harbour  led 

The  ships  to  sea,  a  blue  but  shallow  sound 

With  surging  tides,  upon  whose  treacherous  bed 

The  keels  of  heavy  vessels  ground  and  ground. 

The  channel  must  be  deepened,  men  agree, 
And  so,  great  thunderous  blasts  of  rock  they  blew. 

And  all  the  sleepy  sands  were  dredged;  till,  free 
From  fear,  the  heaviest  ships  went  safely  through. 

We  fret  and  foam,  as  if  our  surface  tide 
Were  fathoms  deep,  and  never  know  the  truth 

Till  love  or  sorrow  through  the  water  ride 
And  grate  its  keel  upon  the  sands  of  youth; 

God  cleaves  the  rock  beneath  the  channel  blue, 
And  then  his  noblest  ships  sail  safely  through. 


8S 


•I  • 


i 


CHANCE  MEETINGS 

A  STRANGER  in  the  moving  throng, 
To  whom  I  spoke  a  casual  word, 
Inspired  our  tardy  march  along. 

By  some  report  v/e  both  had  heard. 

His  answer  ^  have  wholly  lost, 
I  only  know  he  spoke  with  grace. 

But  I  keep  what  I  value  most. 
The  memory  of  a  lovely  face, 

And  through  my  soul  forever  glide 

Delightful  shapes  he  conjured   there, 

Ere  with  a  touch  he  turned  aside 
And  left  me  in   my  different  sphere. 


ii'  I 


We  are  not  strangers,  you  and  I, 

Who  suddenly  come   heart  to   heart, 

A   moment   linger,   then   go   by. 
To  mix  no  more  in  mill  or  mart; 

86 


CHANCE  MEETINGS 

Mysteriously    our    spirits    meet, 
And   compact   fellowship   secure 

With  golden  words,  whose  echoes  sweet 
Below  the  conscious  mind  endure; 

And  some  glad  future  they  shall  know 
The  unfettered  love  they  now  desire; 

Then  thought  shall  burn,  and  feeling  glow, 
And  friendship  be  a  rapturous  fire. 


«7 


THE  PAINTER'S  GRIEF 

THERE  is  crape  on  the  studio  door 
And  none  pass  in  to-day. 
And  the  sunlight  on  the  floor 

Falls  cold  and  gray. 
And  the  painter's  head  on  his  hands  is  bent 
In  griefs  first  strange  bewilderment. 

He  has  brought  a  flower  of  gold, 

The  daflbdil  of  her  France, 
It  lies  in  her  fingers  cold, 

A  glittering  lance. 
And   he  lives  once   more  with   her  alone 

The  blissful  life  of  Barbizon. 


Again  they  climb  the  hill 
And  gaze  at  the  sunset-glow. 

Or  sit  in  the  shadows  still 
Of  Fontainebleau, 

And  she  bids  him  compass  with  his  art 
The  beautiful  things  of  eye  and  heart. 

88 


THE  PAINTER'S  GRIEF 

So  there  come  from  the  master's  hand 
Works  done  in  strength  and  power, 

As  the  summer's  growths  expand 
In  sun  and  shower, 

And  her  love  makes  radiant  all  his  life. 
And  he  blesses  God  for  the  gift  of  his  wife. 

But  sorrow  stands   by  the   shrine 
In  the  inmost  room  of  his  soul 

And  bids  him  drink  the  wine 
In  her  silver  bowl; 

And  his  nerves  are  strings  in  a  harp  of  pain. 
And  he  bows  his  head  in  grief  again. 

Strange  that  we  never  know 

Our  own  till  they  are  dead. 
That  life's  best  harvests  grow 

When    life   is   sped. 
That  love  comes  not  to  its  fullest  birth 

•Till  our  lips  have  echoed,  "Earth  to  earth! ' 

Crape  on  the  studio  door, 

A  cheerless  light  within, 
A  heart  that  shall  feel  no  more 

Earth's  care  and  sin; 
And  a  strong  man's  life  on  which  the  blight 

Of  a  purpose  gone  has  fallen  like  night. 

8., 


1(1 


1! 


If 


'  I 


WHERE  ARE  YE  NOW? 

SPIRIT  enlinked  in  love  with  ours  so  tightly, 
Hands  that  clasped  hands  with  us  and  held 
us  long, 
Heart  never  clad  in  sorrow's  weeds  unsightly, 
Lips  always  tempered  to  uplifting  song. 
Where  afe  ye  now? 

I  ask  the  winds  that  fan  my  forehead  lightly. 
Some  message  clear  to  bring  and  ease  my  pam, 
I  ask  the  stars  that  bum  above  me  nightly 
To  break  the  silence,  but  I  ask  in  vain, 
Where  are  ye  now  ? 

I  have  so  hungered  for  a  voice  to  assure  me 

Ye  have  but  passed  into  a  riper  sphere, 

I  have  so  hoped  Heaven's  angels  kind  would  lure 

me 
To  some  sweet  spot  where  I  might  find  thee  near; 
But  hoped  in  vain. 


90 


WHERE  ARE  YE  NOW? 

And  I  shall  still  keep  questioning  in  sorrow 
Till  I  am  held  no  more  earth's    fettered  thrall; 
Then  others  on  that  not  far-off  to-morrow, 
If  I  am  loved,  for  me  shall  sometimes  call 
Where  are  ye  now? 


91 


THE  STILL  HOUR 
•fl /HEN  the  still  hour  draws  near  that  I  must 

I  ask  that  in  some  iwestem-windowed  room, 
Where  I  can  see  the  sunset,  I  may  lie, 

I  love  so  well  the  blue  and  green  and  gold 
That  fuse  in  liquid  splendour,  ere  the  gloom 
Of  evening  settles  and  the  day  grows  cold. 

A  single  rose  I  crave  beside  my  bed. 

For  I  had  once  a  bush  of  roses  white, 

Whose  fragrance  through  my  deepest  soul  was  shed. 

Let  some  one  skilled  in  friendship  hold  my  hand, 
For  all  my  life  my  peace  has  suffered  blight 
If  none  were  near  me  who  could  understand. 


9a 


it 


THE  STILL  HOUR 

I  want  10  weeping,  but  I  ask  a  prayer 
That  God  would  rob  the  evil  I  have  done 
Of  harmful  power,  and  make  my  influence  fair. 

Then  as  my  breath  grows  fainter,  and  my  eyes 
Darken  forever  to  the  endearing  sun, 
Kissing  my  forehead,  say  your  last  good-byes. 


93 


iRt 


! 


Mr 


II:  J!' 


I  I 


t 

i 
t 


AT  GRANDMOTHER'S 

UNDER  the  shade  of  the  poplars  still, 
Lilacs  and  locusts  in  clumps  between, 
Roses  over  the  window  sill. 

Is  the  dear  old  house,  with  its  door  of  green. 

Never  were  seen  such  spotless  floors. 

Never  such  shining  rows  of  tin, 
While  the  rose-leaf  odours  that  came  thro'the  doors, 
Told  of  the  peaceful  life  within. 

Here  is  the  room  where  the  children  slept. 
Grandmother's   children   tired   with    play. 

And  the  famous  drawer  where  the  cakes  were  kept, 
Shrewsbury  cookies,  and  caraway. 

The  garden  walks  where  the  children  ran 
To  smell  the  flowers  and  learn  their  names. 

The  children  thought,  since  the  world  began 
Were  never  such  garden  walks  for  games. 


9* 


AT  GRANDMOTHER'S 

There  were  tulips  and  asters  in  regular  lines, 
Sweet-williams  and  marigolds  on  their  stalks, 

Bachelors'  buttons  and  sweet-pea  vines, 
And  box  that  bordered  the  narrow  walks. 


Pure  white  lilies  bloomed  comerwise 
From  sunflowers  yellow  and  poppies  red, 

And  the  summer  pinks  looked  up  in  surprise 
At  the  kingly  hollyhocks  overhead. 

Morning  glories   and   larkspur   stood 

Close  to  the  neighborly  daffodil; 
Cabbage  roses  and  southernwood 

Roamed  thro'  the  beds  at  their  own  sweet  will. 

Many  a  year  has  passed  since  then, 
Grandmother's  house  is  empty  and  still. 

Grandmother's  babies  have  grown  to  men. 
And  the  roses  grow  wild  o'er  the  window  sill; 

Never  again  shall  the  children  meet 

Under  the  poplars  gray  and  tall, 
Never  again  shall  the  careless  feet 

Dance  thro'  the  rose-leaf  scented  hall. 


95 


■:ii 


H*' 


i-  I 


ii 

t 

it 


AT  GRANDMOTHER'S 

Grandmother's  welcome  is  heard  no  more. 
And  the  children  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 

And  the  world  is  a  larger  place  than  of  yore; 
But  hallowed  memories  still  abide, 

And  the  children  are  better  men  to-day 

For  the  cakes  and  rose-leaves  and  garden  walks, 

And   grandmother's  welcome,   so  far   away, 
And  the  old  sweet-williams  on  their  stalks. 


96 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AND  THE  NEW 

'  I  '"HE   chorus   of  cutters'    chisels 
■*•       Chipping  the  limestone  rock, 
Begins  as  the  hour  of  seven 

Tolls  from  the  tower  clock, 
Chipping!  ChippingI  Chipping! 

No  music  to  me  so  sweet 
As  the  sound  of  the  cutters'  chisels 

In  the  sheltered  village  street. 

A   row   of  tireless   workmen 

Under  the  spreading  trees, 
Not  a  sound  save  their  cutting 

Borne  on  the  freshening  breeze. 
Chipping,  chipping,  chipping. 

With  patience  and  skill  and  care. 
Stones  for  a  sightly  temple, 

A  shrine  of  praise  and  prayer. 


97 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AND  THE  NEW 

Standing  in  modest  beauty 

From  the  travelled  street  aloof, 
In  a  mantle  of  climbing  ivy 

Cloaked  from  base  to  roof, 
Dear  to  the  village  people 

Who  had  watched  its  walls  grow  gray. 
Was  the  old  church,  in  whci  shadow 

They  had  knelt  for  years  to  pray; 

Now  with  the  stones  from  the  quarry 

Hid  in  the  neighboring  hill 
Another  church  is  rising, 

'Tis  true  with  nobler  skill. 
But  the  chorus  of  cutters'  chisels 

Awakes  not  cheer  but  gloom — 
As  if  the  men  were  chipping 

Stones  for  a  general  tomb. 

To  some  the  old  church  glittered 

With  the  light  of  the  marriage  mom, 
For  some  it  kept  sweet  memories 

Of  each  new  baby  born; 
While  some  remembered  chiefly 

How  its  aisles  had  oft  been  pressed 
By  the  feet  of  those  that  carried 

Parent  or  child  to  rest. 

98 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  AND  THE  NEW 

But  the  sound  of  the  cutters'  chisels 

Is   borne  on   the   fitful   breeze. 
And  a  better  church  is  rising 

Under  the  ancient  trees; 
Though  some  of  the  village  people 

Will  love  till  their  latest  breath. 
The  old  church  with  its  record 

Of  marriage,  birth,  and  death. 

So,  in  this  age  of  progress, 

The  old  to  the  new  gives  way. 
We  live  for  the  long  to-morrow. 

As  well   as   the  yesterday. 
Chipping,  chipping,  chipping. 

Stones  that  the  world  shall  place 
In    the  nobler   human   temple 

She  is  rearing  now  apace. 

We  live  for  the  long  to-morrow 

With  -'ts  triumphs  but  begun, 
When  truth  shall  drop  its  shackles. 

And  sin  and  shame  be  done. 
Chipping,  chipping,  chipping. 

With  a  '.ith  ne'er  felt  before. 
Stones  for  a  church  whose  towers 

Shall  stand  forevermore. 


99 


'  ;> 


', 


I 


"DAY  OF  THE  TRIUMPHANT  SUTT' 

IT  is  the  Yule-tide  conqueror, 
The  king  of  Mith  and  Cheer, 
We'll  strew  his  wa>  with  garlands  gay 
As   comes   his   chariot   near. 
With   fragrant,   feathery  pine-boughs. 
And    cedar   from   the   rocks. 
And  holly  red,  we'll  wreathe  his  head 
And  bind  his  hoary  locks. 

At  Yule  our  Saxon  fathers 

Built  high  their  sacred  fres. 

And  in  the  glow  hung  mistletoe 

About  their  homes  and  hyres, 

And   we   their    ieal    descendants. 

Our   Yule-tide    feast    begun, 

With  hearts  as  gay  will  own  the  sway 

Of  the  "Triumphant  Sun." 

100 


"DAY  OF  THE  TRIUMPHANT  SUN" 

At  Yule  the  goddess  Berchta, 

When  shining  Fahgravel 

His  lithe-limbed  steed  had  driven  with  speed 

Glad  Spring's  approach  to  tell, 

Walked  through  the  frozen  furrows 

And  sprinkled  sunshine  there, 

So  corn  and  wheat  sprang  'neath  her  feet 

Upon  the  meadows  bare. 

And  Odin  the  creator. 
His  fiery  horse  astride. 
O'er  land  and  sea  rode  wild  and  free 
To  check  the  Winter-tide; 
And  fountains  from  their  prisons 
With  silvery  songs  burst  forth. 
And  warriors  gay  sprang  up  to  slay 
The  Giant  of  the  North. 


At  Yule  our  homes  are  blazoned 
With  boughs  of  glittering  green. 
And  signs  of  joy,  without  alloy, 
Throughout  the  land  are  seen. 
And  Yule-tide  fires  are  lighted. 
And  kindly  carols  sung. 
And  loud  and  low  across  the  snow 
Sweet  chimes  again  are  rung. 


,  I, 


I 


„  I 


"DAY  OF  THE  TRIUMPHANT  SUN " 

And  lacred  texts  are  circled 

With  wreaths  of  holly  red, 

And  east  and  west  the  message  blest 

Christ  brought  mankind  is  spread; 

For  Christian  memories  holy 

With  Norse  in  friendship  bide, 

And  Yule  wears  now  upon  her  brow 

The  crown  of  Christmas-tide. 


102 


THE  ANCIENT  GODS  ARE  DEAD 

'  I  ""HE  ancient  gods  are  dead  I 
■*■       Jove  rules  no  longer  o'er  the  Olympian 
plain, 
Old  ocean  waits  for  Neptune's  word  in  vain, 
Apollo  tunes  no  more  his  golden  lyre, 
Vesuvius  trembles  not  with  Vulcan's  fire, 
Mars  captains  not  the  armies  of  the  world. 
The  sooty  flag  of  Acheron  is  furled 
And  hell's  grim  guardian  fled. 

The  ancient  gods  are  dead  I 
Valhalla's  kingly  halls  are  vacant  now. 
Where  Thor,  the  mighty  thunderer,  from  his  brow 
Shot  lightnings  fearful  toward  the  trembling  earth. 
And  Odin  held  rude  wassail,  and  wild  mirth 
Echoed  from  roof  to  roof,  as  went  the  feast. 
Until  the  day  dawned   and  the  dazzling  east 
Made  radiant  Baldur's  head. 


•03 


THE  ANCIENT  GODS  ARE  DEAD 

The  ancient  gods  are  dead! 

The  world*!  great  fanes  re-echo  sounds  of  prayer 

But  bleeding  victims  are  not  offered  there, 

No  Roman  despot  sits  on  heaven's  high  throne, 

Earth's  law  his  arbitrary  will  alone. 

The  flower-decked  sod  hears  not  his  fell  command 

To  enrich  itself  by  carnage;  through  the  land 

The  hosts  of  peace  are  spread. 

The  ancient  gods  are  dead! 

Law  rules  majestic  in  the  courts  above 

And  has  no  moods,,  but  hand  in  hand  with  love 

Sweeps  through  the  universe,  and  smiling  seas 

The  spheres  obedient  to  her  firm  decrees, 

Proclaims  men  sons,  not  fettered  slaves,  of  God, 

And  sounds  the  message  of  his  fatherhood; 

The  true  God  is  not  dead! 


If    \i  i 

I' 


104 


TOWARD  THE  WEST 

U ASTER,  faster  move  my  feet, 

■■■      Morning  breezes,  noonday  heat, 

Both  behind  me,  as  earth's  guest 

I  advance  toward  the  west. 

Amber  clouds  bedecked  my  morn, 
Noon  in  mellow  light  was  bom, 
Kindly  shades  now  cloak  the  crest 
Of  the  hill  that  hides  the  west. 

Beautiful  has  been  my  road. 
Heaven's  clear  springs  have  often  flowed 
To  my  lips  and  given  me  rest. 
In  my  journey  to  the  west; 

Friends  who  kept  my  heart  in  tune 
Oft  have  come  from  dale  and  dune 
With  sweet  comfort,  when  distrest 
I  moved  blindly  toward  the  west. 

loS 


TOWARD  THE  WEST 

0  those  friendthipi  of  the  way, 
Never  shall  their  root*  decay, 
In  their  branches  green  I  nest 
From  the  cold  winds  of  the  west. 

What  the  future  holds  in  store 

1  have  questioned  o'er  and  o'er. 
Shall  I  in  oblivion  rest 

When  I  reach  the  silent  west. 

Or  beyond  death's  portals  wide 
Shall  my  powers   unsatisfied 
To  diviner  tasks  be  prest. 
In  the  fair  fields  of  the  west  ? 

Faster,  faster  move  my  feet. 
Morning  breezes,  noonday  heat. 
Both  behind,  for  I,  earth's  guest, 
Swift  approach  the  purple  west. 


io6 


THE  ANGEL  SLEEP 

TTT'HEN  the  day  is  done  and  the  shadows  fall 

'  '       Over  the  earth  like  a  dusky  pall. 
From  cloistered  halls  in  the  hidden  deep 
Rises  the  beautiful  Angel  Sleep. 

Over  forest  and  field  he  spreads  his  wings, 
Where  the  cricket  chirps  and  the  wood-bird  sings, 
And  the  murmur  of  voices  dies  away, 
Stilled  by  the  Angel,  calm  and  gray. 

The  passions  of  men  that  surge  and  swell 
Are  mastered  soon  by  his  mighty  spell, 
And  weary  spirits,  and  eyes  that  weep, 
Yield  to  the  power  of  the  Angel  Sleep. 

We  call  him  Death,  'tis  the  Angel  Sleep 
That  comes  at  last  from  the  hidden  deep. 
And  p  ...sing  his  hand  o'er  the  brow  of  care 
Subdues  the  wild  delirium  there; 

107 


''-1 


THE  ANGEL  SLEEP 

So  we  sleep  and  rest  till  the  dawn  comes  near 
Of  the  day  of  the  spirit,  calm  and  clear, 
When  into  his  halls  in  the  hidden  deep 
FUes  forever  the  Angel  Sleep. 


loS 


li 


WHEN  NIGHT  SHUTS  IN 

^T  rHEN  night  shuts  in  the  wearied  world 

"  ^       And  Nature's  work  is  done, 
And  every  floating  flag  is  furled 
That  caught  the  golden  sun, 
It  seems  as  if  Death's  darkness  hung 
About  the  living  deep. 
But  'tis  the  silver  shadow  flung 
By  Death's  twin-brother.  Sleep. 

When  Death's  mysterious  night  comes  down, 

And  soul  and  sense  are  riven, 

And  not  a  smile  and  not  a  frown 

Stirs  the  strange  face  of  heaven. 

It  seems  as  if  no  sunlit  mom 

Would  ever  sweep  the  sky, 

As  if  the  spirit  had  been  born 

To  slumber  endlessly. 


109 


WHEN  NIGHT  SHUTS  IN 

But  who  can  think  oblivion's  tide 

Shall  never  backward  roll  ? 

Who  dare  believe  no  mansions  wide 

Await  the  sentient  soul } 

We  sink  in  shadow,  and  the  night 

Tents  in  our  timorous  fears, 

We  wait  the  morrow's  sun  to  light 

Our  lives  to  loftier  spheres. 


if? 


